


tumblr fics based on pics

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, College!AU, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Reichenbach, Voyeurism, collegelock, dirty pics, gifs and porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various drabbles based on porny-looking pics that might not actually be so porny at all whatsoever. Ratings vary. Various pairings.</p><p>Writing this for snog and for <a href="http://justanotherstupidape.tumblr.com">Gracie</a>, since she enjoyed the MorMor one so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlolly: College

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



In uni, Sherlock liked to experiment. Everybody has that experimental age, I suppose. Molly had one - she was called Irene, and John had one (Bill Murray - not the actor, to be perfectly clear), and both before and after Sherlock found Victor Trevor, Molly Hooper was his experimental phase.

Sherlock wasn't particularly fond of his time spent with Molly, but he didn't have a lot of other options after he'd been banned from the chemistry building, suspended for drug use, put on probation for fighting, and had broken up with Victor. He was vaguely aware that using Molly like a sexual guinea pig was wrong, but she seemed to enjoy the misuse - if anything, it was a kink for her - and as long as nobody got the wrong idea he didn't see why it mattered.

But this was what Molly liked best. Lying back and having Sherlock go down on her, licking her. (He once accidentally traumatized himself by wondering if this was why she liked cats so much, if the sensation of being licked by a cat mirrored this. The second this thought occurred he kicked it out of his Mind Palace and mentally bleached the floors on which it had stood.) And he was pleased that he never actually had to penetrate her, because in the few times they'd tried that it had never been satisfying, and not just for him.


	2. Mormor: In the End

Sebastian really just likes to spend time with Jim. Because Jim is just so special, and he's never met anyone quite like him.

He knows who James Moriarty is, can see the connection, and although as a former Colonel this should bother him it doesn't. Because when he's with Jim, that's who he is. He isn't Moriarty. He's Jim, who secretly hates cats but loves  _Glee_  and was bullied as a child. When he's with Jim, Sebastian sees the survivor, a broken boy who's recovering. He doesn't see a serial killer or mass murderer, just someone who needs to be loved. Who needs to be understood.

Sebastian wonders what John Watson sees when he's with Sherlock Holmes. If they ever lie in bed together and talk about the stars and their place in life, but he figures probably not. He wonders if John ever feels taken for granted, because for all that Sebastian adored Jim he knew his own feelings were stronger than his lover's. That Jim might have loved him, but that he wasn't a priority.

So even though Sebastian is pulling a gun out of his waistband and aiming it at John Watson's head, he's not thinking about a boss who gave him a job, a serial killer who wanted Sherlock Holmes dead (or at least miserable). No, Colonel Sebastian Moran is thinking back to a time where he and Jim are lying in bed, petting each other and Jim is whispering sweet little lies and telling him how he'd do anything for him. And Sebastian knows that he would, and return the favor. And he thinks of this day because it's the one before Jim dies, before Jim shoots himself. And in that moment, Sebastian doesn't hate Jim or John or himself or even Sherlock Holmes. He just wants everybody to understand what it's like. He just doesn't want them to take it all for granted.


	3. Johlock: One-sided

When Sherlock first realizes he's losing John to Mary Morstan, he panics. He tries to keep John interested and tries to keep John there, and for awhile it seems to be working. But John still goes back - goes  _home_ , he supposes - to her. So on the Saturday following their latest case - something about a man and a meth lab - Sherlock completely loses it. Devoid of other ideas and tactics, Sherlock strips himself and wanders back out into the living room naked. 

John nearly chokes on his coffee. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

But Sherlock isn't listening. He's past the point of hysterical, reaching straight-up manic. He grabs John roughly by the back of the neck, dragging his head up awkwardly and forcing them into a most uncomfortable kiss. John protests, slamming his unoccupied fist against Sherlock's chest so hard it jostles his mug and hot coffee scalds Sherlock's leg.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John yells, backtracking to the kitchen for something to clean the mess up with.

But Sherlock doesn't really notice the pain, all he sees is John in front of him, frantic and bustling about. Ready to leave.  _Love **me**_ , Sherlock's head screams.  _Stay with **me** , live with  **me** , put up with  **me**_ , he thinks. "Please don't leave me," is all he really says - maybe, possibly, but John doesn't hear it or if he did he doesn't get a chance to reply, because Sherlock is forcing kisses on him again because all Sherlock can really think is  _not her not her not her_.

But John manages to force him away, slapping him hard on the cheek. John swallows as a red hand print starts to show on his skin. He should apologize, he should feel sorry...

...But he can't.

"I don't know what's gotten into you lately," John says, "But I can't stay here 'til it's fixed."

He looks at Sherlock, now down on his hands and knees, shaking. John thinks he may be crying - the third time he's seen him cry. The second time the tears have been real. The first time he's been this close. And John can't stand the intimacy, so he leaves.


	4. Mystrade: a Break from Real Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I intentionally made this super-fluffy to make up for the terribly sad Johnlock fic before this.

It's funny how things happen sometimes. Mycroft had crawled through all of England utterly dissatisfied. He had observed the far corners of Russia, dug his way through Spain, spied on America, even kept tabs on India in between sips of chai, and still he hadn't found what he wanted. He stopped in Paris on his way home, and found something far greater than all of the treasures in all of the various museums he'd patrolled combined. And, of course, this utterly ridiculous, wonderful, infuriating young man was from back home, a mere two blocks or so away from where Mycroft worked.

His name was Greg Lestrade, and Mycroft had never felt so inebriated in his life than when he was with Greg. They were sharing a space in a youth hostel although neither one was exactly a youth. It wasn't in the highest end of France, but Greg had a budget and Mycroft had a yearning to find something different.

'Mycroft. Is that really your name?' he'd asked when they'd first met. Greg shook hands like most people hugged: warm, encompassing, and strong. Mycroft couldn't breathe.

'Yes,' he managed to choke out. 'My parents thought they were awfully clever, coming up with their own names.' Greg smiled easily, showing all his teeth. Not baring them, just displaying them. Like a lesser form of intimacy. 'I have a brother named Sherlock. I rather think I got the better deal.'

Greg laughed, head tilting back just so. Mycroft watched the veins in his neck as breath burst forth from his lungs. He was so beautiful. And he still is.

'Right,' Greg confirmed. 'I rather think you did too.'

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Greg was not from as high a class as Mycroft, although Mycroft hardly noticed and nor did he care. Greg was a romantic, interested in poetry as much as he was in footy. He wanted to be a detective inspector and was, slowly, working his way through the ranks of Scotland Yard.

'What do you want to do, My?' he asked playfully, throwing a dirty sock in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. They'd been doing laundry in the sink earlier, and had another "load" - if you could call it such - to wash. He lobbed a pair of pants at Greg as he responded, 'Oh, I don't know. Something in the government, I suppose.'

'You could be like Big Brother,' Greg said with a cheeky grin.

'What on Earth would make you think that?' Mycroft asked in feigned offense.

'That camera in your bag,' Greg said, but all playfulness was gone. He nodded to Mycroft's duffel, never fully unpacked. 'Seriously though, what's the camera for?'

Mycroft's Adam's apple worked overtime as he swallowed in rapid succession. Talking about Sherlock was never particularly easy. 'My brother's going through a sort of twelve-step programme,' Mycroft said carefully. 'Mummy wanted me to be able to keep an eye on him, but that wasn't particularly conducive to my plans. Sherlock made me promise to video everything I did, or rather all of the important things. Though he has an odd idea of what is important.' He looked up to see if Greg was disgusted with him for bailing out on his little brother, but Greg only nodded in sympathy. 

'Should you film me, then?'

Mycroft's greedy heart took over his cautious mind as he all but shouted 'Yes.' It Greg noticed his eagerness, he said nothing; he did, however, smile to himself.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

'What should I say?' Greg asked nervously. They were stood on the fire escape. It was hot because it was summer, so Greg was clad only in a pair of long shorts. Mycroft couldn't stop swallowing at the sight, reminding himself not to tip the camera too low. Sherlock would never forgive him or let him forget if the camera displayed any of his own arousal.

'Perhaps start by introducing yourself?' Mycroft suggested.

Greg smiled for the camera. 'Hullo there Sherlock! My name is Greg Lestrade. Er, what now?' he asked, looking off camera.

Mycroft decided, to hell with it, and went for boldness. 'Tell us how you got to be so gorgeous?'

Greg barked out a nervous laugh, different from the one he'd heard when they first met. Greg's first laugh had been one carefully crafted from years of structured appearance. This laugh caught him off guard and was riddled with anxiety. He nearly fell forward, hands still in his pockets, stomach muscles contracting slightly.

'What is it?' Mycroft asked, rather worried himself.

'It's just,' Greg blushed, looking out over the Paris skyline. 'No one's ever called me gorgeous before. I'm just sort of...normal.'

When Greg didn't turn back, Mycroft turned the camera off and quietly put it to the side. He raised himself up and slowly approached his friend, the way one might approach a wounded animal. He rested his hand on Greg's shoulder, and Greg shifted his head to look at him shyly from under his eyelashes.

'You are, my friend, a great many things,' said Mycroft, 'but normal is not one of them.'

Greg blinked slowly, processing Mycroft's words. Just as Mycroft was thinking that they hadn't come out quite right and didn't convey what he really meant to say, Greg turned the rest of his body around, taking his hands out of his pockets to rest them around Mycroft's shoulders as he kissed him lightly, then passionately, on the mouth.


	5. Sherlock/Irene/Moriarty: Menage a Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this might honestly be the filthiest thing I've ever written.

He loved lace. Lace and garter belts and stockings and silk panties (although this time, he's forgone them) and high heels and gloves. Maybe he was weird for it all, but he loved it. Loved the feeling of being soft. Loved the feeling of being so effeminate when really, he was so powerful.

He could understand why Irene was so drawn to it. And they were so alike, he and she, in so many more ways than one.

Moriarty listens to the audio as it happens.

 _Thank you for saving me, Mr Holmes,_  Irene says, breathless.

 _My pleasure_ , Sherlock purrs.

'I'm certain it was,' Moriarty says to himself.

It's the most talking any of them do for awhile.

Moriarty can see it all happening in his head: Irene wanting to thank Sherlock, Sherlock denying payment, but Irene insisting that she find a way. Moriarty knows the tell-tale signs of Irene undressing Sherlock, can hear his gasps as she makes her way down his body with kisses. Moriarty runs a gloved hand down his body as he envisions them, envisions himself with them. He circles a nipple, squeezing it gently as his other hand reaches down to his exposed penis, running a hand over the shaft and pinching the tip. Pre-ejaculate runs over his covered fingers and he shivers. He feels so filthy.

There's a wet popping sound coming from the audio in addition to the laboured breathing and he knows that Irene has been sucking Sherlock's cock and that he's probably still standing, half-dressed, in the middle of the room. Moriarty runs his pinky on the underside of his penis, and for a moment it's like Irene is there doing this to him. He gasps to himself when the buds of his fingers rest on the slit, stilling him and titillating him all at once.

 _Well don't just stand there_ , Irene commands. Moriarty can see her quirking an eyebrow at Sherlock. Undress me.

Moriarty goes about unsnapping the the straps that hold his stockings in place, letting them roll down just a little bit. His cock continues to lengthen and harden as he imagines Irene's breasts exposed, nipples erect, quivering under Sherlock's lips. 

There's a soft  _Ooph_  and Moriarty lays back on the bed like Sherlock and Irene are doing now, running gloved hands over his thighs and pretending they are Sherlock's hands, scarred from experiments gone wrong. He hears Irene moan but doesn't touch himself; there's no really appropriate correlation for where Sherlock is touching her now. Instead Moriarty just listens, enjoying the gasps and audible  _oh yes_ es. He can tell the moment Sherlock's mouth leaves her cunt because she protests slightly. But Sherlock is crawling up her now, and Moriarty bends his knees to place his feet on the bed and slip the garter belt over his slim hips, enjoying the catch on his dick and the way he must maneuver it to rid himself of the garment. He's not sure who to imagine here in place of his own hands - Irene, or Sherlock? It's fine either way, but he's missed something on the audio. Sherlock is already in her, sucking a nipple into his mouth as he rocks slowly.

Moriarty rolls his left nipple with his right hand as his left jacks his cock. His hips gyrate slowly and when they pull up enough for his hand to reach the based Moriarty's thumb reaches out, stroking his soft abdomen. In his head, it's Irene's clit he's thumbing. He knows Sherlock's hand is down there now, applying pressure as he rocks into her.

Irene takes in a startled breath that brings Moriarty back into the real world, as it were. His right hand, the one that was caressing his nipple, flies to his mouth and he bites down, dragging the glove off. In his mind, Irene is arching her back, her legs thrown wantonly around Sherlock's waist. Moriarty sucks two fingers into his mouth, sidetracking himself from his real-life daydream as he imagines himself sucking Sherlock's cock, big and long and thick, stretching his mouth out. He moans and removes the two fingers, gasping in time with Irene. She's just starting to man rhythmically, the bed creaking in time with her, as Moriarty applies the fingers to his opening, gradually letting himself in. And now it's Irene, riding his dick as Sherlock thrusts from the bottom, running his hands over Moriarty's thighs.

'Oh, fuck,' he whispers, barely registering his own voice as a thick glob of pre-cum spurts out, coating his dick.

 _Sherlock, yes_ , Irene groans, He sees her painted fingers digging into the sheets by the pillow underneath her head. He sees Sherlock tilting her hips up to get closer, sliding in further.

The thrusting becomes more erratic as Irene's chanting gets louder, and suddenly two is not enough for Moriarty. He hears Sherlock's shallow breaths as he thrusts a third finger, not bothering to lube or coat it with saliva, enjoying the burn as he imagines Irene on her back, screaming for him, and Sherlock on his back, pounding in ferociously. His hand is jerking wildly on his cock as the cheap hotel headboard hits the wall. The gloves are making everything more difficult, but they feel so good.

Moriarty comes when Sherlock does, gasping and breathing an odd mixture of their names and watching his cum fly to his stomach, painting him with his own sins as he pretends to come down with Irene as his pillow and Sherlock as his blanket.


	6. Johnlock: Even Without You

John is twenty-four and Sherlock is twenty when John first decides to grow a beard. And Sherlock hates it.

'Shave it off,' he demands in a mumble when they're lounging in bed one Sunday morning. John's in residency in a nearby hospital, but he doesn't go in 'til nighttime. All good reasoning tells him he should be asleep, but he hardly gets to spend any time with Sherlock as it is and he's an insomniac besides.

John's in his pants only, bottom half of his body covered up by a thick quilt with Sherlock's head in his lap. Sherlock is already dressed for the day, warm sweater-vest over a strangely striped shirt. What Sherlock does once John's out for the day he doesn't know. Harasses Scotland yard, probably.

Sherlock traces John's beard, scratching lightly at it. John wonders for a moment if he's high, until Sherlock's unfocused eyes meet his.

'No, I'm not high. I just hate this beard.'

John smiles. 'Show me.'

'Show you what,' Sherlock breathes.

'Show me the world that's inside your head.'

John lets the arm in his lap caress Sherlock's jaw. And he knows in that moment that he is more in love than he has ever been. More than that, he knows that it shows, and he hopes that Sherlock can feel it.

Sherlock furrows his brows at John in concentration. 'How do you do that?'

'Do what?'

'Confound me.'

John shakes his head. 'I don't understand,' Sherlock touches John's ears, runs his fingers through John's hair, follows the curves of John's nose and his lips. 'There's nothing special about me. How could I possibly confound you?'

'I don't know,' Sherlock says, not meaning it the way it sounds. And John knows that. 'I don't understand how you can - how can you understand the parts of me that I can't?'

John shakes his head, rubbing Sherlock's left ear with his right thumb. 'I know you're not the sociopath you claim to be.'

'But how?' Sherlock's furious - not with John, but with himself. 'I can't stand not to know things.'

'Now you know how the rest of us feel,' John jokes, but there's a heavy feeling in his chest. Something's about to overflow, or break. Everything hangs in the balance of whatever Sherlock says next.

'I love you.' And he says it so loftily, as though it doesn't mean anything. Like he's voicing his opinion on a book instead of confessing his deepest feelings. Or that's how it would appear to someone who doesn't know Sherlock would see it. Only John can see the fear in his eyes, the hitch in his breath, because until this moment Sherlock only thought. He didn't know for sure. And now John has to act quick.

'I know,' he says. 'I - I'm in love with you, too.' And he kisses Sherlock quickly, hoping he won't notice the last-minute change in word choice. But being Sherlock, he does.

'Semantics, John?' he huffs. 'Surely you know me better than that. You know how I feel about you. How I -' Sherlock sets his left hand on his stomach and raises his right to grasp John's wrist, bring John's hand to his mouth and kiss the palm. 'Ardently adore and love you.' And John feels Sherlock whisper the words  _am in love with you_  against his skin and he shivers. His chest feels completely empty, but it's not uncomfortable. It's relieving. 'Even if I can't say it out loud,' Sherlock finishes, and brings John's hand back down to his neck, ensuring that John caresses him again as Sherlock stares up into his eyes.

John lays down further, running his skin over the space where Sherlock's jaw meets his ear, sighing in contentment. But Sherlock heaves a different kind of sigh. One of regret, and slight annoyance. Sometime during their cuddling Sherlock had taken out his phone and was now glaring at the screen. 'Lestrade?' John asks, and Sherlock nods.

Sherlock sits up and John's lap feels cold in his absence. Sherlock looks straight into John's eyes as he kisses John's palm, flicking his tongue out to tease the sensitive centre. 'Tease,' John groans, and a cattish smile creeps over Sherlock's space.

'Get some sleep, love,' Sherlock says, picking up his coat as he exits the bedroom. And John does sleep, better than he has in years. Even with the knowledge that this might be the last time he'll hear Sherlock Holmes say those words. Because John knows now that Sherlock will always mean them.


	7. Johnlock: What We See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, this one isn't as porn-y. It's a bit of a cheat too, I guess. But here's a fun fact - I've written two papers today. One was eight pages, and the other was five. So yeah.

Sherlock doesn't know  _how_  he knows, he just does. John will like this, the voyeurism/exhibitionism aspect that the camera adds. They will probably never watch their own sex tape, but that's hardly the point. The point is that they  _feel_  as though they are being watched, and that makes it all the sexier.

But of course it's better if he doesn't tell John about it, not right away. Something tells him that letting John in on the experiment would make his lover too shy to follow through. No, it would be much better to present John with the evidence halfway through, when it's far too late for either to stop the train. So Sherlock set the tiny camera up in the skull, figuring that their front room was the easiest place to conduct his little experiment. Sherlock's room was so meticulously neat that any misplaced items would look suspicious, and after having Sherlock as a flatmate for three years John had learned to measure his surroundings. If Sherlock manouevered anything, John would know. It was becoming quite annoying, especially as he seemed to grow more paranoid by the day. His reluctance to let Sherlock into his room had started to worry Sherlock that John was trying to distance himself for a breakup.

Sherlock has never been in love before, but he suspects this is what he is experiencing and he hates it. He'd thought himself aromantic before, that he and John could just use each other for their sexual needs while maintaining an easy camaraderie. He believes the term was 'friends with benefits,' but he doesn't really need a label. If it keeps John around, he doesn't care what John chooses to call it. And that, really, should have been Sherlock's first sign. It isn't as though the situations are reversed - that Sherlock's asexual and only requires romantic components, but he finds that those aspects matter much more to him. Well, his version of romantic anyway. Sherlock really isn't sure what constitutes as normal behavior for this sort of arrangement, but his heart feels lighter when John lies in bed with him after they've finished and Sherlock can count John's heartbeats and hear his breathing slow down because John's laying half on top of him. His stomach churns in a way that isn't unpleasant when John touches him unnecessarily, like when he absently rubs Sherlock's biceps when checking on his experiments, or the way John's hand casually covers Sherlock's when their seated next to one another in a cab or on the couch.

Sherlock knows that the wisest decision, the most logical one, is to break from his relationship with John before John inevitably and awkwardly bumbles his way through his "you're great but here's why we shouldn't be doing this" speech. He's read enough of John's e-mails to know the basic gist and his behaviors over this past week have been the same as those Sherlock has observed when John is coming about to his break-up phase. He gets  fidgety and won't look anyone in the eye, as though he feels he's being judged by those around him. He blushes easily, too, and shuffles his feet, looking quickly at his surroundings. You would think the man was preparing for an attack, and perhaps he was. Some people do not take rejection lightly. Sherlock is one of those people, but despite these facts Sherlock knows he will not be the one to break up with John. He's called these behaviors pathetic in women before, but now he understands. There's no way to be logical about the situation when the feelings are not mutual.

'You in there, Sherlock?' John calls as he stomps in. He's been doing that a lot too, stomping. Sherlock realizes that it's in part because it's been raining and he'd hate to leave puddles on the stairs, lest Mrs Hudson fall down them. But John continues to stomp when he's in his bare or stocking feet. Sherlock would think John agitated, but John is one to voice his problems, especially when Sherlock is the problem. Which is why Sherlock knows John will break up with him, soon, possibly tonight. That's why Sherlock is trying to amp up their sex life - maybe the addition of the kink will make John postpone his speech for another night, any other night but this. Sherlock feels at his lowest and his stomach drops. 

'Is it just me, or is it warm in here?' John asks himself as he opens the window. It's a ridiculous notion because it hasn't stopped raining and it's cold out. John, in addition to being nervous, is now also over-heated. Sherlock fears he might have a stroke, especially when John begins to pace about the small room, one hand in his pocket and the other rubbing over the beard he doesn't have. At one point, he even releases his other hand from its pocket, where it appears to be balled into a fist, and rubs both hands over his face. Sherlock knows that this is the moment, if he wants to take advantage and catch John off-guard he needs to do it now; but for the first time, Sherlock finds himself incapable or movement. Not physically incapable, mind you, but a more debilitating psychological fear of movement. Things will start to go downhill in three, two -

'Sherlock, we need to talk.'

Ah, so there it is. Sherlock looks up at John, wide-eyed, and wonders how obvious his emotions are. How close are the tears to the surface? Such a stupid reaction to have, crying. Sherlock can make the tears come at the drop of a hat, but at a price: he can't stop them when they're real. 'Must we?' he breathes before he can stop himself.

'Yes, Sherlock, we really need to-'

But Sherlock has hurled himself at John, wrapping arms and legs around him and kissing him madly. He knows he's mostly missing John's mouth and landing small droplets of pressure to obscure points on John's face, but he doesn't care. If John is leaving him tonight, Sherlock needs to catalogue every aspect of John that he can.

'Sherlock -'

'No John, please.'

'Sherlock, you're shaking.'

Is he? Sherlock can't tell, he knows he's vibrating from nerves and anger at himself and a violent sadness he knows is depression looming over him, ready to impale him with its sentence of life in isolation. 'Please, John -'

'Blimey, no, Sherlock. Sit down,' John demands, and guides Sherlock to the couch. Sherlock resists being pushed down into a sitting position, but stays at arm's length from John.

'I don't know what's gotten into you all of a sudden. You're shaking like mad and you look as though you might faint.' John lowers his eyes in suspicion. 'When was the last time you ate?'

'Yesterday,' Sherlock responds. It's a lie, but what does any of that matter now? He knows what's coming and he can't stop it. Like a train.

John nods, but his look of suspicion and concern only deepen. 'Are you back on the coke again?'

What Sherlock means to say is  _no, of course not, don't insult me so_. What comes out of his mouth however, is 'I don't want to break up.'

John is blinking rapidly at him, remind Sherlock of the whirring and blinking lights on computers as they process a sudden surge of information. He supposes this really is what it's like to John. Too bad he hasn't the patience for John to realize the implications. 'You've been acting anxious around me all week. You hardly look me in the eye and when you do, you look ashamed of something. You won't even let me into your room and we haven't had sex in three weeks.' Something occurs to Sherlock as the data is flowing out of his mouth. 'Oh God,' he whispers, not meaning to sound so needy but giving up on all pretenses that he isn't hopelessly, helplessly dependent on John. 'You've met someone and you're getting married. That's what this is all about,'

John looks around the room, a blush rising on his neck and perspiration breaking on his forehead. 'Well, I suppose there's no hiding it,' John says with a sigh. 'I have met someone. Don't know if we'll be getting married or not. But of course you've figured that out - I won't let you in my room.'

'Why didn't you tell me?' Sherlock tries for indifference and lands in heartbroken. 'I would have been fine, of course. This was just a casual arrangement, after all?'

Sherlock is glad to feel some of his composure slipping back in. Oddly, John seems to be losing his. He raises one eyebrow to Sherlock, a gesture Sherlock can't interpret at the moment. Or maybe he just won't, because it means John is mocking him. He did, after all, just plead with John not to break up with him. Was there still time to play that all off as a lust-addled brain?

'Sherlock, are you listening to me?'

'Hm?'

'I asked you if you meant it. If I left, you wouldn't...you wouldn't try to convince me to stay?'

The words are out of Sherlock's mouth immediately, facade appropriately back in place. 'No, don't be ridiculous.'

John's facade slips back as well. Or  perhaps a facade slips in for the first time. John's face is usually open and readable, but now it's guarded. He nods and brushes past Sherlock, heading up to his room. Sherlock listens as he stomps on the stairs, then collapses backwards into the couch. He falls asleep, bemoaning the loss of something he never really came to know.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It's about six in the evening when something moderately heavy collides with Sherlock's stomach, and a sharp voice snaps ' _Bullshit_.'

Sherlock jerks up on impact and the item lands to the floor. He picks it up, reveling in his ability to touch it. It's John's notebook, one his sister gave him for Christmas so he could keep notes on his and Sherlock's cases. Sherlock's never seen it because he's never really had reason to look at it. He was present at all of the cases, obviously, and John over-romanticizes things besides. But it must hold something important to John, or he wouldn't have thrown it at Sherlock.  _Or maybe he can't stand me anymore_ , Sherlock thinks.

'Hm?' Sherlock asks, not looking at John.

'Look at me when I'm speaking to you,' John orders and, flabbergasted that John would speak to anyone, let alone Sherlock, that way, Sherlock obeys. John looks as though he might've fell asleep on the floor for awhile. His cheeks are swollen, especially under his eyes, which are red and drooping. If he didn't know better, Sherlock would think John had been crying. But that's ridiculous, because Sherlock would have known, he would have heard. 'I said bull.  _Shit_.' John repeats, his teeth clicking together satisfyingly as they hit the  _t_.

'What is?' Sherlock asks.

Without missing a beat, as though he's planned out this entire conversation in his head (and maybe he has), John answers, ' _You_.' When Sherlock doesn't respond, John continues. 'You said you wouldn't care if I left and never came back -'

'I never -'

'Semantics, Sherlock. I'm merely interpreting your words. Now shut up.' Sherlock closes his mouth again. He sees himself in his head as a puppy, being scolded for messing in the house. John breathes heavily before continuing. 'And I call bullshit.'

Sherlock swallows, waiting for John's nod. It never comes. 'I know this, Sherlock, because you begged me not to break up with you. Not that there weren't other signs, but if you were preparing for this - and I know you, you were - and really didn't care about the state of our relationship, you would have broken up with me ages ago.'

'Why do you care? You're getting married,' Sherlock hisses, opening his mouth to continue but is once again cut off.

'I told you to stay quiet!' John shouts, face red. He rubs his right hand over his face again, calming himself down. More quietly, he continues. 'I did say that I was  _intending_  to get married, but I never said to whom, you twat.' When Sherlock only looks at him in confusion, John rolls his eyes. 'I meant you! Jesus, for someone so smart you can be a right bloody tosser when you don't feel like deducing the facts in front of you.'

'The facts?'

Having apparently forgotten his insistence for Sherlock's silence and finding a new affection, John seats himself on the coffee table in front of the couch. He takes Sherlock's face gently between his two hands and bends Sherlock closer, so John can kiss his forehead. John rests their foreheads together. 'I'm in love with you, you sodding idiot. And I thought you felt the same way, assumed you knew I meant to propose. I wasn't trying to pull away or hide from you, but y'know - proposals are meant to be a surprise. That's pretty impossible when you've got a genius for a boyfriend.'

Sherlock's heart stammers in surprise. 'Boyfriend?' he asks. 'That's how you see me?' 

'Well, I'd rather see you as fiance, but you haven't answered that yet.'

'Yes.'

'Yes what?' John teases.

'Yes to all of it. Yes it's a mutual feeling and yes I knew -'

'No you didn't,' John states, but good-naturedly.

Sherlock flushes. 'Okay, so not that part. But yes, I'm in love with you. And yes, I will marry you.'

Sherlock can feel Jon smile against his lips. 'Good,' John says. 'Now that that's settled, what do you say we put this camera you've hidden to good use?'


End file.
